Page 82 of The Rules
That was a ridiculous fucking day.
Her brain was already halfway to her couch, to the bottle of wine chilling in her fridge, to the blessed silence of her apartment where no one would be watching her, analyzing her, playing whatever twisted game Ben had decided they were playing.
The office had emptied around her, most associates long gone. She'd stayed late deliberately, hoping to avoid... this exact moment.
Footsteps sounded behind her. Measured. Familiar.
The cadence unmistakable.
She didn't turn. It wasBen.
He didn't pass her. Didn't fall back. Just stayed close. Like a shadow that was deciding whether or not to wrap around her throat.
The elevator dinged its arrival. Kath stepped inside, jabbing the button for the lobby with more force than necessary.
The doors began to slide closed, and for a moment, she thought she might escape.
For a moment, he stood silently beside her in the elevator. Then she felt it—the subtle shift of air as he leaned in, just enough for his voice to reach her.
“You always smell like vanilla, Winters. Why is that?”
His tone was low, casual, but the words brushed against her like heat.
Kath’s spine stiffened. Her heart stuttered against her ribs, her body remembering too much—his mouth, his hands, the way he made her fall apart.
“It’s just lotion,” she said, her voice flat, carefully neutral.
Ben hummed—soft, unreadable.
Andthen the elevator doors opened, and he stepped out—calm, collected, as if none of it meant a thing.
The elevator doors started to close again. Kath just stood there, staring at the metal in front of her, heat rising in her chest, her pulse still a staccato throb beneath her skin. Then—belatedly—she moved, reaching out with one hand to stop the doors just before they sealed. They jerked open, and she stepped out too.
What the fuck was that?
Chapter 22
Benjamin
Benjamin Sinclair doesn't want coffee. Doesn't want food.
He wants answers.
The break room is unusually quiet. Ben leans against the counter, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the side of a ceramic mug he hasn't bothered to fill. His mind replays the night at the club in excruciating detail—every sound she made, every tremor he felt under his hands, every whispered breath tangled in heat and shadow.
And now she's here.
Walking into the room like nothing happened. Like she hasn’t unraveled beneath him. Like she hasn’t spent the last several days pretending he doesn’t exist.
She heads straight for the fridge. Calm. Composed. Alone. Perfect in a way that feels intentional. Performed.
Ben watches the way she moves—precise, controlled, curated to look effortless. It’s a show, and she’s good at it.
He keeps his voice light, casual. Disarming. "You ever meet someone you can't quite figure out, Winters?"
She doesn’t rise to the bait. Just lifts an eyebrow as she pulls a water bottle from the fridge, twisting the cap with cool indifference. "Is this your way of saying I’m smarter than you?"
He smirks, but there’s no ease behind it. Not today. This isn’t banter. It isn’t flirtation. It’s something sharp, coiled just beneath the surface—something he can’t let go of.
